


gonna do it on purpose

by Laylah, roachpatrol



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Beforus, Come Inflation, F/M, Gangbang, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Poor Life Choices, Unhealthy Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My shift’s over,” he says. “You wanna get a drink, Mr. Ampora?”</p><p>Your school tour is going to notice you’re not in attendance any microsecond now, if it hasn’t already. Your school tour can go to hell. </p><p>“Yes,” you say fervently, and he grins that awesome grin again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gonna do it on purpose

**Author's Note:**

> A note on consent stuff here: the power dynamics in this story are *really* unbalanced. Cronus is saying yes, but he is deeply out of his depth and in the hands of people who are more interested in his cooperation than his well-being. Please exercise caution if you have noncon/dubcon/coercion-and-manipulation triggers. (If you need more specifics to decide whether the story would be safe for you, feel free to message me - cyphercat - on tumblr.)

_I'm gonna make a mistake_  
 _I'm gonna do it on purpose_  
 _I'm gonna waste my time_

 

"—produce the full-scale star cruisers where most of you will wind up serving," the tour guide is saying somewhere up ahead. Some tealblood with a nasal voice and an inflated sense of self-importance, you think, and you haven't been paying full attention since the first block the lot of you went through. This _sounded_ like a good trip, a nice break from the routine of the academy: the chance to go see the working shipyards that build the pride of the Imperial fleet! It figures that, like everything else, it would turn out to be boring as shit once you got to actually go. Story of your life, getting your hopes up and getting let down by everyone around you being disappointments.

You hang back a bit further. Nobody's paying attention to you. Up front, that prissy fuck Zahhak is asking yet another wretchedly involved question about warp cores or whatever the fuck. You couldn't care less what he's asking _or_ what the answer is. You should just ditch.

The next time your group shuffles past a branching hallway, you just... sidle off that way instead of following the herd. You shove your hands in your pockets and stroll down the corridor, trying to look like you're going somewhere you're supposed to be. The uniform helps some, but only at first glance—only until someone looks close enough to notice it's just got a cadet's bars and not any actual ranks on. So you maybe don't want to just wander around the halls too much. You start looking for a good place to go do a little more interesting sightseeing, somewhere you won't get hassled. Like—there you go. The door to Repair Bay 12 is open partway.

The block’s huge and partially open to the sky, a massive unidentifiable chunk of spaceship hanging ponderously in the center of the echoing space. A lone technician rummages shoulder-deep in the mess of dripping, sparking cords, which means you get a pretty distracting look at a _perfectly_ built backside all sort of wiggling provocatively at you, hello. You linger by the door, ready to duck back out the minute this guy gets mad at you. 

—Or, that was the plan. You tear your gaze off that lean, tight ass to see the rest of the technician propped up on his elbows and gazing at you flatly, his doubled horns set aggressively forward and his psionic-freaky eyes narrow. “If I’d known I was gonna be the star of my very own peep show I’d have set up a ticket stand outside,” he says, and before you can freak out he grins. 

Wow, that is a lot of fangs. You smile back, spread your arms, and give him your best _aw shucks_ floor-scuff. “Can’t blame a guy for appreciating a miracle of first-class engineering, sir."

“You’d be surprised at how little I can’t do, Mr....?”

“Ampora,” you say, and go to stick your hand out, but of course you’re across the room from him and anyway he hasn’t gotten off his elbows. You sort of wave instead. “Cronus Ampora, at your serw— _service._ ”

“Mm. You don’t say? How about you come over here and _serve_ me a five-eighths hyperspanner.”

Holy shit, you have no idea what that is. You slouch over anyway, trying to keep your fins set level. _Damn,_ the way his cover-alls are peeled half off, knotted around his lean hips so you can see every slick line of muscle, that has to be deliberate. No way he isn’t up to something, uniform half-falling off him like that. 

“The hyperspanner?” the technician prompts, and you start guiltily. 

“Right, right, uh—” you cast around and find a mucky old beast-hide bag hanging from some random sticky-outy bit of machinery. You do your best to control an instinctive grimace of distaste and rummage out a handful of greasy tools. What the fuck is a hyperspanner?

You hold the whole handful out to the technician with a wide and helpful smile. He gives you a look just long enough to draw a prickle of sweat out along your temples, then tugs a thing that looks a lot more like one of the really illegal concupiscent devices than any kind of proper tool. 

“So you’ve been paying attention on your little school tour, then,” he says. “And here I thought you might be one of those terrible maladjusted delinquents we’re always being warned about. The kind that force us poor technicians to call security.”

“Oh, no, not me, no way,” you say hastily. “Star pupil, me. Avid scholar.”

He grins that astonishingly fangy grin again. “I’ll just bet.” He disappears back into the machine with a rattling squelch. “And what do you like studying, Mr. Ampora?”

Currently? The view right in front of you isn’t bad at all. If you tilt your head just right you can see a few inches of really hardcore burn scar, before it snakes down into his boxers. “Ah, well, a bit of everything,” you say. “Uh. History, poetry. Game theory. I’m kind of an intellectual.”

“Well don’t I feel blessed to have your company then,” comes his muffled voice. “These—ow, fuck!—hunks of junk aren’t much for conversation.”

You preen a bit, and offer over another handful of tools when next he asks. The two of you fall into an easy conversational rhythm, you holding tools and enjoying the view and telling him about your classes and hobbies, him showing a gratifying amount of interest in your points of view and occasionally swearing at mysterious things up inside the machine. He’s got a really shocking mouth on him when he gets going, and it’s kind of exciting. 

“—over the command deck with a big black pail,” he finishes, and wriggles back out. “Fuck, there. I think she’s had it for the day. How old are you, kid?”

You’re startled by the subject change and defensive at the insinuation. “Nine,” you snap. 

He raises a single eyebrow. 

“Pretty soon,” you amend. Like in a sweep or so, but he doesn’t have to know that and you’re told you’re a pretty good size for your age. Then he takes his visor off and runs his hands through his severely clipped hair and straightens up—and up—and you feel startlingly outclassed. _He’s_ nine, if he’s a night. In swinging distance of ten, even. His horns aren’t just forked like some guys get, he’s actually got two sets. You want to climb him like a tree and cop the mother of all feels.

“My shift’s over,” he says. “You wanna get a drink, Mr. Ampora?”

Your school tour is going to notice you’re not in attendance any microsecond now, if it hasn’t already. Your school tour can go to hell. 

“Yes,” you say fervently, and he grins that awesome grin again.

* * *

“It’s cool, he’s nine,” your technician says, and shoots you a sly wink as he ushers you past a daymare mountain of a bouncer. 

"If there's trouble," the bouncer says, "I'm telling the social enforcement officers, you brought him, you cave-robber," but he's rolling his eyes like that's not a real threat and then you’re past him and into the dingy, smoky, reeking interior of the nastiest recreation hub you’ve ever been escorted to. You'd be surprised if anyone here was even as high on the spectrum as olive, it's that much of a dive.

“Cave-robber,” you sniff, irritated, and your technician throws a warm, heavy arm around your shoulders. 

“You got a fresh face, Ampora,” he says. “Bound to be some misunderstandings. Here, let’s get you set up with something stiff.” And then he waggles his eyebrows and you almost choke on your own spit. 

“I could, uh,” you cast around, “stand to swallow down something pretty strong today. And wet.” You waggle your own eyebrows and are rewarded with a wild, nasal cackle. 

He orders for you both at the bar, and you can't hear what he asks for over the noise of the crowd, but the glasses he gets back are short and stout, filled up about halfway with something cloudy and rustblood-red.

“Bottoms up, star pupil,” he says with another of those ridiculous eyebrow waggles, and tips it all back in one smooth go that shows off his throat like a dare. You gulp, flick your fins out wide—you’re not scared, you’re _assessing_ —and go to toss back your own drink.

Or at least you mean to. Actually it tastes like something dead that got set on fire, and you spit it back over the countertop in horror and retch. Your technician pounds you on the back, laughing. 

“That wasn’t anything comestible!” you protest. 

“Not with an attitude like that, it isn’t,” he grins, and takes away the rest of your glass. Then he downs that too, and you get the idea you’re being made fun of. 

“Okay, okay, I was just surprised,” you say, waving a hand. “The other stuff I’ve had like that was different.” 

“Oh, so it was like that, but it wasn’t,” he says, and nods all slowly. “This kind of fancy highblood logic goes right over my poor little horns.”

You scowl. “Just get me another one.”

He does, with the warning, “No one’s going to judge if you just sip it this time, kid,” except he’s going at a third like it’s the sweetest of fruit juices instead of some kind of nasty hellspit. You try a sip of yours, but it’s still awful. 

“Sollux Captor, you _fat nasty trash_!” someone bellows, and you turn around just in time to see the most intimidating rustblood you have ever had the misfortune to behold _charging at you_ from across the room. You squeak, she throws herself horns-first at your technician, and they crack their headgear together with all the concussive force of a bomb going off. Half the glasses in the block tip over, and you’re struck blind with the psionic discharge. 

When you blink tears and light-blind sparklies out of your oculars, she’s sitting on his lap as proper as a pillowbeast, patting his face like they got handfasted right out of the egg sac. Her nails are short, her knuckles are scabby, and she’s got a bite-shaped chunk taken out of the nearest ear. 

“How was work, honeybee?” she purrs. Her enormous coiling horns are _carved_ , fuck, you don't even want to think about how that must have felt.

You are so scared, scared in this way that has you feeling your pulse all through your junk, like you're balanced right on the edge of something terrible and glorious. Fuck, what kind of guy must your technician be, to have a barbarian terror like that go milk-pale over him? 

“I made a friend tonight,” he says, and loops an arm around your waist, apparently trying to reassure you. This brings you closer to Rosie the goddamn Reaver, unfortunately, so actually instead of relaxing you just freeze up. How do you even begin to make a good impression on someone like her? When she stops squishing face long enough to shoot you a grin that shows off a sharp, shining gold fang you have a new appreciation for what hopbeasts must feel like. 

“Charmed,” you croak. 

“I’m sure,” she says flatly. “Sugarpie, one of these days your fishy little friends are going to land you in _so_ much hot water.”

“What, Mr Ampora here?” the technician says, and gives you a squeeze, “nah, he’d never. He’s an intellectual, you know. Fine upstanding young man. Studies game theory.”

“Well don’t we all,” she sneers, and steals your drink. “Mmm. God, this stuff is lemonade, hanging out with nerds and grubs every night has made you _so soft_!”

Whatever the fuck the next round of drinks consists of is apparently flammable, because they arrive smoking ominously and make her cackle like a ghoul. They tip their glasses back and you hold yours like you’re seriously considering it, and then your technician’s fingers wander up your jacket and—oh. 

Ah. That’s. Those are your gills he’s touching, thumbing raspy and hot over the lowest opercula so slow and you didn’t ever think any part of you would be so sensitive. The sound of the block sort of blurs out and each stroke, measured and deliberate, tugs a hot bright chord right to the core of your nook. 

“You alright?” he murmurs, and you can feel his breath on your fins, you can feel the edge of one blunt nail dragged along the seam of you just sharp enough to, to, to blaze, set you aflame, oh. You blink, trying to refocus, and nod shakily. Anything, yes. Sure. 

“I think you might have picked the wrong friend to take out for a spin tonight,” the rustblood comments, and plucks your drink out of your slack claws. “He's clearly still got the training wheels on.”

Oh, that does it. Incensed, you snatch the tiny glass back and bring it to your peeled-back fangs. Training wheels! Fuck her. You throw the whole smoking mess into your mouth and swallow hard, then flip her off while everything from your gut to your oculars starts to sizzle with pain.

She gives a single, slow, sarcastic clap. "Oh dear, I stand corrected," she says, and that one gold fang glints again as she smirks at you. You'd try to snarl back if you could be sure it would actually come out _as_ a snarl instead of a whimper.

“You want to get some fresh air?” your technician asks, “the air around here’s gotten all polluted with crass lowblooded aspersions.”

The low, wicked laugh from said lowblood keeps you from nodding too eagerly, but you can’t help the pulse of heat and hope that washes all through you at the offer, or the way he tugs you upright with his nails so sharp against your sides. The idea of going outside with him sounds worlds better than staying here drinking more revolting poison in defense of your maturity attribute. Outside, like—alone, away from prying orbs? Like, maybe spending some private time together, some private totally mature-guys type time?

He leads you through the thickening crush of patrons and out through a little rickety side door into the sudden muggy brightness of a brightseason morning. The cramped and crate-filled alley is covered with awnings that tint the brightening dawn a sick hot green, and everything feels suddenly gross and unreal. You blink hard, nearly blinded, and press uncertainly up against your friend’s side. The door closes and the sound of the pit quiets down sharply and then you two are alone together. 

“Hey,” your technician says. 

“Hey,” you say, uncertain and a bit dizzy. In the brightness he’s very tall, and very built, and so mature, and you really want this to be the part where you get kissed. 

“You were pretty smooth back there, man,” he says. “I think she liked you.”

“No shit?” you ask, pleased, and then he stoops down and kisses you, this _is_ the part where you get kissed, oh fuck yes, and you throw your arms around his neck eagerly. His lips are rough and warm as tea and his tongue is startlingly slick, and your own mouth just falls open in invitation. You press up against him everywhere you can manage.

“Why, Mr. Ampora, I do believe you’re trying to seduce me,” he drawls right into your friggin’ mouth, and you can feel your bloodpumper all the way up your throat to your fins. 

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” you gasp, and grind daringly against his thigh. “‘S’it workin’?”

He catches up your face firmly and—tonguefucks you, there’s no other word for it, his tongue pressing past your teeth all slow and sloppy and intense, not letting up ‘till you’re practically swallowing him, clinging to his arms for balance so your knees don’t totally just give up on you. 

He pulls back a little and you pant like you don’t have a single spare neuron in your pan.  
“Yeah,” he says, and drags a finger across your lips. “Yeah, you got me.”

Oh, good. Oh fucking hell yes. You stretch up to kiss him again, trying to mimic what he was doing to you—you're a quick study, right? You totally got this. He nips at your tongue and teases it with his, making this low growl in his throat that almost sounds threatening, except it's like he's threatening to give you everything you want.

“Here, I want you to do something for me,” he says, his hands on your shoulders just enough to push you back. 

“Anythin’, man,” you say, straining for his mouth again, “sure, you name it, I’m your guy.”

“Glad to hear it. Here, kneel down—”

The ground is harsh and gritty on your knees and you can feel something gross immediately start soaking through your uniform trousers, but you’re breathless enough that you’re glad to be off your feet. You touch his legs, uncertainly, and he works at the fastening of his dirty coverall, getting it unknotted from his sharp and gorgeous hips. Holy shit, he’s going to show you his bulge. Your own throbs in sympathetic excitement. 

He gets his coveralls down around his thighs and he’s got more burn scars there and a vicious lemony bruise as big as your palm tucked up right below the crease where his thigh meets his—fuck, that’s his nook. And above that is his bulge, thick as all your fingers together where it comes coiling out of his bone sheath and glistening electric-green in the morning light. You swallow hard. 

“It won’t bite,” he says, somewhere far above you. “Give it a kiss, yeah?”

Wow. Okay. You lean forward and touch it, carefully, and it’s big and warm and slick and surprisingly firm underneath the delicate wet skin. It presses back against your fingertips so strongly it almost moves your hand with it. You think about that firm, forceful touch on you—or in you, oh, you want that. You bring your mouth forward and press your lips to the shaft. 

It twitches, flicks against your lips, and you daringly run your tongue along a bit of it. He doesn’t taste half bad, your technician, or maybe that was the point of the drinks, maybe anything would taste good after you got chemical burns all over your oral cavity. Regardless, he makes a soft pleased sigh and spreads his legs a bit, leaning against the wall, and he runs his fingers through your hair. 

“More of that,” he says, pleased, pleased with _you_ , and you shiver. You curl your tongue around his dripping bulge crosswise and he chirrs, quietly, his fingers clenching in your hair, and you feel so powerful. 

Daringly, you slide your mouth up towards the slender, delicate tip and suck. He curses and grabs for your horns and you gasp—no one’s ever touched you there, no one’s dared, and your sense of space compresses down to the prickling-hot enclosure of his palms. He drags your head forward and you go, rolling with him slackly, and his bulge floods into your mouth all at once, in a wave. The taste is so much stronger when you’re actually swallowing it, god. You’re swallowing him. Your throat clutches reflexively once, twice, when the tip of his bulge rolls back there with the mouthfuls of slurry, and then the frond catches, presses in further. You know your fins are fluttering in distress and your nails are sunk hard into the meat of his thighs and you should—stop, pull back, think twice, this is degrading or damaging or whatever the fuck, this is _intense_ , but instead you just think _training wheels_ and swallow hard. 

“Oh, fuck, kid,” your technician gasps, and you can feel the shudder all through him, in the long jumping muscles beneath your palms. “Just like that, beautiful, you’re such a good boy.”

God. God, fuck yes, you’re doing this right. You swallow again, again, trying to adjust to the sloppy-wet thrashing of his bulge against your tongue, down your throat, pulsing out slurry in time to his frantic lowblood heartbeat. How much stuff can one guy even _make?_ A lot, evidently. For a minute you've got this equilibrium where you've figured it out and you're perfect, completely open and wonderfully filled. But it doesn't last. Between the hands on your horns and the way his bulge stretches out your jaw, coils back against your helplessly spasming throat muscles and pours slurry right down your ‘chute, you start to get kinda sick, to hurt. You haven’t taken a breath in way too long, and when he yanks on your horns again, grinds your face right up into his crotch, you lose control of your gills. 

It feels bad. You’ve never had them come open in the dry before, it’s unhealthy, and the air smarts fiercely at the delicate filaments, too thin and sharp. It’s not right. You push back against him, trying not to totally freak out, and he lets you go far enough back so his bulge is only rubbing at your tongue, the insides of your cheeks. You can breathe. Every breath tastes coppery-bright and humid and you’re coughing up his slurry, but you can breathe. 

You breathe. 

“You’re so pretty like that,” he says roughly, still clamped on to your horns like he owns you or something. “Look at you, kid, you’re being so good to me. You suck bulge like a champion.”

You grin as best as you can for him, feeling weirdly shy for a kid with like six inches of meat in his mouth. 

"Bet you'd like some more, though," he says, and you make a questioning noise around the thick hot length of him. He strokes one of your horns and you shiver. "Get your pants open."

Wow, yes, that is definitely the kind of more you'd like. You tongue at his bulge as best you can to let him know what a good idea that was, and let go of him to go after your trouser buttons. You're a mess, your bulge already drooling, your nook swollen and damp. You hadn’t even noticed getting this bad, you’ve been so taken with sucking him.

"Go on," your friend says, and you think you're falling for that throaty, raw tone in his voice, the way he sounds undone by you. "I want see you fuck yourself for me." You whine hopefully, looking up at him with the best pleading expression you can muster. He laughs. "Don't worry, I'll get there. Get yourself warmed up for me first."

You don’t need to be told twice. You stuff two fingers up your nook immediately and moan with relief. Your bulge is nearly frantic to get in on the action, slapping up wetly against your hand to twist in alongside, and you can’t stop moaning at how much more intense everything feels like this, with someone actually watching you, appreciating you. Every jolt of pleasure feels echoed, somehow, like you’re not really doing this for yourself entirely but like you’re doing it for him, offering yourself up, begging for his approval.

And he gives it, easily, petting and encouraging you, saying shit like “That’s right, open up for me, fuck, you’re so good, such a loose little toy for me,” and slipping his bulge back down your throat till you can’t even breathe and your voice is choked off into sputtery whining hitches of your chest. "So fucking sweet, god, every last bastard in there would be jealous of this, wish they could spill a pailfull in a mouth like yours."

You're squirming at his feet, shuddering at the filthy, flattering things he says to you, and just—just thrilled to be actually doing this, to be good at it, to be wanted. You've got three fingers up your nook and rubbing your bulge as it twists and pushes inside you, god, the same way he's doing your throat.

When he comes you’re totally unprepared for it—you thought you’d gotten a handle on swallowing him down, on handling just how wet and messy the whole affair is and how strongly he’s fucking rooted into you, the way you don’t even know which way is up—and then he comes and everything just fucking floods. You choke and thrash and you can feel his genetic material sheet down your throat hard enough to stretch you out, burn you from the inside out. He’s actually coming down your _throat_ , into your digestive sac, holy shit. It’s the weirdest, grossest, hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. You feel like your bulge is just going to drop off, like your guts are going to melt and boil over with sheer stupid incredulous lust, and cram a fourth finger up into yourself all around your twitching bulge and think _he said he’d fuck you up there, he said_ , and then you’re coming, spilling into yourself and all over your trembling thighs. 

“Fuck,” you say, the first thing you can say, when his bulge comes softly out of your mouth. “Fucking... wow.”

“Good for you too, pet?” he asks, and he sounds as pleased as you feel, which is really incredibly pleased. You’re smug and tingling all over. 

“The best,” you say, wiping your sore lips, “that was just, you were, and it was all... fuck. Yeah. Good. Real fucking good, bro.” 

He laughs, nicely, and his hands slip off your horns. 

The world slides back into focus and you just about startle out of your skin to realize the rustblood girl from before is leaning up against the wall shoulder-to-shoulder with your technician, her arms crossed over her tits and an enormous grin going right from one ear to the next. "Real fucking good, huh?" she says. "Sounds like you're up for a round two, then."

You squeak and shrink back against your friend’s legs, looking up at him for some kind of—sign, some kind of explanation or advice. This is _his_ friend, his very good friend who he cuddles in scary drinking pits and she’s so cool and so tough and there’s a _bite_ taken out of her _ear_ and you don’t have any idea of what to say. Round two?

His warm hand comes down and pets you, just lightly. “Told you everyone would be jealous,” he murmurs. “Everyone would want a piece of you, pet, bro, you’re so fucking sweet. How’d you like to show her as good a time as you showed me?”

Holy fuck. You gape up at him, totally floored, and then peer back at his friend. She gives a bright little wave, fluttering her fingers like you’ve just locked oculars over canapes at a reception dinner. You swallow another squeak, and think, _training wheels_. Fuck that. 

“You said you’d get to my nook,” you say, and it comes out croaky but blessedly steady, blessedly fucking casual and cocky. “Don’t suppose she’d mind filling in?”

She laughs, and as hideous as all her damage is the sound is genuinely lovely. 

“I’d be delighted, Mr. Ampora,” she says, and holds her hand out to you. Your bro gives you a sharp nudge with his knee, a pat on the back of the head, and you struggle up to your feet. Your knees feel like someone stole them, and you almost pitch right back onto your ass when you shuffle free of your shoes and pants and ruined briefs. Bareassed and trying not to blush, you present yourself to this rustblood for inspection.

“So can I pick ‘em or what?” your technician asks, and elbows his friend. She elbows him back.

“Don’t look so smug, you don’t have the bone structure to pull it off,” she says lightly, and then cups one chewed-up paw around the back of your neck. 

“Shirt off, kid,” she says, and you strip. You get the feeling she’s not as easy to please as her mustardblood buddy, and you wish she wasn’t seeing your junk like this, all sort of half-employed and uncertain. But, “Not bad,” she acknowledges, and runs rough fingers along one of your gillslits. You moan, hesitantly, more to encourage her than because it genuinely feels nice. 

Then she spins on her heel and you find yourself pushed up hard against the wall, rough brick grinding into your ass and shoulders and horntips and her crowding up against you everywhere. “This is better, though,” she says firmly, and licks your fin. Her mouth’s even hotter than your technician’s, her tongue even softer. 

“Oh,” you say faintly. “Oh, I, yes, yes it is, thank you—”

You can feel her bulge through her skirt, tracing damp circles against your stomach. She doesn’t do a thing about it, though, just keeps you pinned and mouths slowly at your fin, her breath hot and deafening in your aural canal and her tongue so startlingly warm. Her fingers rasp circles across your tender gillslits, weird wandering paths that you can’t make sense of, that stoke the ache inside you higher. Even without anyone’s hands on your horns you’re dizzy, your sense of place gone vague and sloppy.

When she tugs at a finpoint with her even lowblood fangs it’s like a shot of fire all down the side of your neck, and you choke out a keen that sounds more like a sob. She nips again, one tine lower, and your hips jerk. She laughs, low and pretty. She’s teasing you, she’s going to let this go on all day, drive you mad. You can’t stand it.

You grab up handfuls of her skirt and pull her tighter against you, jerking your hips desperately. Your bulge is back up inside you but it’s not enough, it’s too familiar a pressure and it’ll take ages to get off like this, you’ll die. 

“Please,” you whine, driven far beyond shame, “please, please—”

“Whoah there, pal,” she laughs. “Take it easy.”

“Can’t,” you plead. “Come on, lady, just fuck me, I’ll be good, promise—”

“God, where does he even find you stupid little things,” she mutters, but before you can process that as a rejection she’s hauled her skirts up around her waist. You can feel the full extent of her bulge and it’s terrifying, exhilarating. It drags across your entire stomach as it searches for your nook, it’s like something out of a dirty joke. Your whole nook throbs just thinking about how full she could pump you. Hell, she could _split_ you.

“Please,” you whimper. You’ve never needed anything inside you so badly. 

“Okay, okay, don’t get your bulge in a knot. Come on, hup,” she says, her hands going under your armpits and your gut lurches: she’s floating you, she’s actually got you in her power right now. Your legs wrap tremblingly around her sides, your arms around her shoulders. She brushes her nose against yours, trying to gentle you, and all you can do is keen like a crazy thing. 

“Brace yourself, smallfry,” she says, and then her fingers are hooking your bulge out of your nook and something hotter, something wet and strong, is licking up into you.  
It’s an experience. Some part of you had expected pain and for a second or two it's uncomfortable but fuck, you don't care, that's the feel of _someone else_ inside you, someone else’s slurry being drawn into your seedflap alongside your own, boiling-sweet and everything you need. 

“More,” you gasp, and you claw at her in a frenzy.

“Relax,” she says, nuzzling against your throat, her breath hot and fast against your jaw, “Easy, kid, roll with it.”

You groan and knead her shoulders, panting, and try to focus. You want to squirm away, clamp down, bite her ugly tattered ear right off. Instead she hitches more of that stinging monster into you and keens with satisfaction, a sweet sexy noise, and you try to take deep breaths. You chirp back at her, desperate with greed, and she keens again. 

You writhe against the wall, against her, feeling her fluid gathering alien and hot in the very core of you and _oh,_ that part of you is so good, is the best part. That part of you really fucking likes this, is satisfied for the first time in your life, is singing _oh yes this, this please, more!_ And you focus on this part when she huffs and shudders and gets another unbelievable span of her monster bulge seated into you. She’s filling you up, she’s giving herself to you. You chirp again, longer, louder. You can take her. You want this. 

“Good boy,” she pants, her hips squirming up hard against yours, and guides your head down to her tits, which, hello, yes. You nuzzle them delightedly, get told to nip them, eagerly comply. She makes beautiful noises, throaty and approving. Your world is soft skin and battlescars and the relentless flood of genetic material. When you try to spare a hand for your bulge she grabs it, guides it up to a huge spiraling horn and you’re utterly distracted again, fingertips lost along the carved lines. You feel like you’re being spun out, wrapped around her, your legs around her hips and your nook around her bulge and your arms clutching desperately, and it’s so good. 

Finally her moaning pitches up into a wild scream and her hips surge up like a battering ram, her body plows into yours a final time and she climaxes, pumping into you hard and vicious. You throw your head back in helpless, grateful surrender and she bites your throat. It's beautiful, everything is fucking beautiful.

And then it all breaks: her bulge inside you shifts, retreats, and the gorgeous flood tapers off into a trickle and then nothing. You flutter and clutch at her length, frustrated, but she just laughs and pulls your thighs apart with a squelch. Confused and upset, you remember your technician, and you look over to find him again. He's been so good to you so far, giving you everything you ever wanted, and you feel like you're not done, here, you still want more, and—he's watching you, and he's not alone. The bouncer who let you in is with him, a thickset mountain of shoulders and wide spreading horns, and your tech's hand is shoved down the front of the bouncer's jeans and working him slowly. You can see the dark stain spreading between his legs, and you whimper. That. You want that. Anything but to be left like this.

"What do you think?" your tech asks, butting his head back against the bouncer's shoulder. "You can see how bad he needs it."

The lady at your front pulls back, and you stare dazedly into her face as she looks you over, her deep red eyes narrow. You have one of her tits cradled in your palm and you really don’t want to give it back. 

“Do you?” she asks. “Do you want it, kid?”

You nod, frantically, and squeeze her. You open your mouth to say yeah, to say of course, please, please, but all that comes out is a stupid high keen. You can feel yourself shaking, somewhere distant, like you’re cold, but the core of yourself is all steady burning flame. 

"Well," the bouncer says, "that is, pretty hard to argue with." Your tech lets go of him and he crosses the alley toward you, unbuttoning his damp jeans as he goes.

The rustblood tries to set you down on your feet, but your knees aren’t working right, and so by the time the bronze reaches you, bulge coiled magnificently around his huge hands, you’re panting on your knees before him. You grab for him once he gets close, get your hand around his bulge around his hand and stuff a whole complicated tangle of fingers and thick bronze genetic material into your mouth. The taste of him pours through you and you whine in relief. It’s so close.

He laughs, a low rumbling chuckle, and runs a huge paw through your hair. 

“Thanks, but, that’s not exactly where I want you, little guy,” he says. His hand traces down your shoulder, your back, and in one smooth motion he gets his palm under your ass and lifts you up easy as if you were a shot glass. You yelp and throw your arms around his neck: he lifts you a lot farther up than the rustblood had, and there’s no steadying tingle of psionics to reassure. He backs you into the wall and pins you there with just his body weight, and wow, he could probably _crush_ you if he wanted to, couldn't he? The pressure against your lower belly is kinda hard to handle and you try to squirm, shifting your hips like that could give you more room. Then you feel the blunt tip of his bulge rubbing slick and hot against the tender folds of your nook and everything else stops mattering.

"Yeah," you gasp, "yeah, c'mon, need it so bad," and he kisses your fin, the bitten one, so soft and gentle, as his bulge starts to snake up into you. Maybe he's trying to be gentle with that, too. You can't tell. It's so fucking huge, it feels like there won't be room for all your own parts when he gets it all the way in.

“Aren’t you the cutest, hhf, little thing,” he murmurs, and nuzzles between your horns. You throb with the praise. For such a big badass guy the overwhelming impression is softness, his thick corded muscles just barely brushing against you, his free hand stroking over your pulsing, cramping stomach, working away the knots in your abdomen as he slides so fucking slowly into you. His fangs are long as hell, but you don’t feel them when he kisses the tear-tracks on your cheeks. 

“Shh, pupa,” he says. “It’s okay, you’re doing great.”

You nod, your breath hitching, and oh, _oh_ , he's in you deep enough to start feeding his material into your flap, making sweet ripples of pleasure ride through your nerves. You mouth sloppily at his jaw, trying for kisses and not quite sure you're managing.

You don’t need anything else inside you but this, you figure, this is what you’re for, what everyone’s for, stuffing you tight until everything else is a distant concern. You’ve never been anywhere this full, or felt anything like this good. 

The bronzeblood can’t get his whole bulge into you but even that’s perfect, since yours curls around the final few inches of base and lights you up with the twinned sensations, pleasure winding through you from every end. His hands knead at your ass and the taut swollen curve of your gut and he lets you get your hands all over his massive horns. Your fingers hardly even reach all the way around. You’re breathless with a floating, unreal delight, breathless with the way everything in you is just pushed up and out at the brownblood’s climax, and when you get a tongue shoved down your windchute the sting of your gillflaps as they spasm open feels sweet, this time, not scary. 

Then it all _stops_. 

“Oh, fuck, my break's over,” the bronzeblood moans, and puts you down fast. “You useless bulgebrains, you were supposed to warn me—” he goes about wiping himself down with a napkin and doing his pants back up, and you lean against the wall and gasp for air. You don’t feel right, something’s not right. You feel fuzzy and disoriented, unfinished. You can’t catch your breath, even with your gills still fluttering and burning.

“Hey,” you say groggily, and catch his sleeve. “Uh.”

“Uh,” he repeats, but in an amused way. “Hey, you were great, okay?” He gets a few fingers under your chin, kisses you slowly, like he really likes you. “Thanks for the ride, doll, it made my night.”

“Welcome,” you mumble, and then he pushes away and hurries back into the club. He punches your technician on the arm, but he doesn’t look back once. Your head’s spinning, and you feel so... you don’t know. Your seedflap pulses, stuffed and still so hungry, and you’re breathless and aching and your stomach cramps over and over without any hands to soothe it. You feel utterly lost.

You try to take a step away from the wall, towards your technician, and you crumple heavily to all fours. The abrupt loss in altitude does nothing for your equilibrium or the tight, heavy roil of your insides and nausea bolts through you. You retch, helplessly sick, and turn your stomach inside-out onto the dirty alley pavement. 

"Shit," the rustblood says. She's at your side in a second, big hand between your shoulderblades, warm and steady, a few fingertips smoothing down your neck. "You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine. Just keep breathing."

You make a really undignified tiny sniffling noise. Your mouth and throat taste awful and you've just made a total idiot of yourself and even being gross and sick everywhere hasn't made your nook stop throbbing. The pressure inside you’s even eased up some, which just makes the need so much _worse_. If this is sex, how does anyone manage to stop?

When your technician tries to hand you a cup you flinch back, sure that more of the liquid fire he was giving you before would just come right back up. He laughs a little but you think it's friendly. "It's just water," he says. "Rinse your mouth out, see if you can get some down."

You do, and you can. You still feel stupid and inadequate and awkward, but a tiny bit less gross with the bile out of your mouth.

“Hell, would it kill you to play a bit nicer?” she says, and your technician just makes a vague grunt. When you look up he’s grinning at you, and you smile hesitantly back. He’s still so handsome, and you’re so embarrassed to be falling apart like this. 

“He’s fine, see?” he says, and you nod hastily. “He’s a big boy.”

“I’ve picked bigger things out from between my fangs,” she says sourly. “I’m calling him a cab, okay? He’s probably got class in the evenings.”

Like you give a fuck about _class_. You huddle up against your technician’s legs and stare reproachfully at the rustblood when she pulls a communicator out. She catches the look, you’re sure, but hurtfully ignores you in favor of poking and cursing at the device. 

“You get better reception out front,” your technician says. 

Her eyes narrow. 

“Well, you do.”

She sighs, rising to her feet. "You’d better help him pull himself back together, you asshole," she says. "Bring him out front when he can walk."

"Thanks," he says sheepishly, and she rolls her eyes at him before she heads off.

Once she goes out of sight around the corner, he pulls you close, warm and solid against your back. You hiss—you must have raw spots from the brick—but you don't think he notices. "How about it, kiddo?" he says. His hand slides down the tightly knotted mess of your front, strokes a line down your bulge, runs along the swollen lips of your nook. "Can't walk just yet, huh?"

"No, I—" you start, and his fingertips tease slow circles without pushing into you and you catch on. "Nope," you agree hastily, "c-can't get up at all."

He purrs, and you feel it hum right through you. "There's my clever boy," he says, low and hungry. “Promised you I’d get into that greedy nook of yours, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah,” you say, grateful, “yeah, y-you did, you said,” and you want to kiss him but your mouth... he eases you away from the mustard-yellow puddle of your sick and tips you forward onto your hands and knees again. You shift to spread your legs wider, because he still wants you, even after you made such a pathetic scene, oh god, he still wants you.

His bulge slides into you so easily, after the bronzeblood plowed you open like that. Your technician slips into place quick and precise and controlled, and you ache from the first second his material throbs into you but you can take it, you _want_ to take it, your whole body trembling. You're making helpless wet sounds at every pulse, your head down, your arms straining to hold you up. _So good_ , he tells you, _so fucking sweet_ , his hungry lisp burning its way into your pan. You'll never be the same. They've—he's scoured you hollow and filled you up different, broken all the rules you thought you knew about sex and made it intense and unbearable in ways you can't refuse.

When he comes you think you're going to die, for one bright painful second, think you're going to just _rupture_ and split down the middle and that'll be it, the end of you. But the sharp pain eases back to something you can breathe through as your insides stretch enough to hold all his material, and your eyes are squeezed shut and you're panting but nobody ever died of pailing too hard, you're almost sure. God, you're so full, though, aching with the weight, you need a pail so _much_.

He's pulled out of you and you're not quite up to moving, definitely not up to standing on your own, so you're just trembling and trying to catch your breath. Then he's pulling you up, warm hands and crackling psionics and how is he still so balanced, so steady. He's wrestling your clothes back on.

"But," you say as he stuffs you back into your trousers. "But I..." You gesture at your bloated belly, your swollen bulge that doesn't even have room to retract.

"The cab is going to be here any minute," he says, shaking his head. "And my girlfriend’s going to be pissed as hell if she figures out I gave in and let you have more. Come on, we gotta hurry."

You whimper, but you don't want to get him in trouble. Being in trouble with someone like that would be terrifying. You lean on him as he slides an arm around you, and limp uncomfortably along with his solid warmth to hold you up.

The look the rustblood levels on your technician when you clear the front door has you pressing flat against him, torn between self-defense and protective indignation. You don’t know whether to growl at her or show your throat, so instead you mumble a grumpy “Thanks,” and let her bundle you into the waiting cab, trying to look as tough and unfucked as you can possibly manage.

“You’re going to want to discharge right away,” she tells you, helping you strap into the seat. “Otherwise you’re going to end up with all kinds of unsavory proclivities, like some shitheads I could mention. A pail’s not going to cut it for your situation, so you should probably head for the nearest trap you can find. After you’re done with the trap, get a heating pad and a gallon of something with electrolytes in, and go easy on yourself for a while. We all had a lot of good, clean fun tonight—let’s keep it that way, okay?”

You look over her shoulder to see the technician, smiling away at you both, and then she moves to block your view. She flicks your cheek, just sharp enough to remind you that she’s got hands full of dangerous scars and brutally trimmed claws.

“And kid: don’t come back.” With that, she slides the door closed on you. The last thing you see before the cab flutters away is your technician, taking her hand, turning back into the bar. He doesn’t so much as wave you goodbye.

* * *

You don't remember much of the ride back. It's a blur of discomfort and too much light and wanting to be sick again. But you manage not to make a mess of the inside of the cab, barely, and you stagger back to your dormitory respiteblock without collapsing.

“Ampora?” you hear, “Cronus, are you quite all right?” 

You wince at the flare of arc lighting from your fucking roommate playing with his goddamn machines again at a truly horrific time of day. You snarl in his general direction and stumble into the shared bathroom, shedding your filthy, sticky uniform along the way. Kicking the door closed is just about too much for you and you’re driven back down to your knees, cramps clawing at your stomach like all the material’s trying to get out but it can’t, you need—you don’t know what you need. This shit always just took care of itself when it was you fooling around with yourself. It all just drained back out. 

You pull yourself pathetically into the ablution trap, sprawl across the cool porcelain, and sniffle. Even now you’re wondering why you closed the bathroom door, why you didn't invite your roommate to have a go at you. Horuss is good with tools, maybe he could lend a hand. Or another appendage.

You don’t even _like_ him but you don’t have to, do you, to fit yourself down over that blue bulge and ride it hard, wreck yourself on him. You curl up around another shuddery cramp, keening helplessly, and paw at what length of bulge you’ve got that isn’t stuffed back up your nook. You feel raw all along your inside walls, thoroughly abraded. You don’t like him, you tell yourself fiercely, you don’t want him, and you bite down on your free hand to keep from calling out again. 

If you can just get yourself _off_ , all you want is to get yourself off. Get this over with.

Then the door clicks open. 

“Cronus? I saw the stains, are you injured—shall I call for—oh. Goodness.”

You stare blearily up at Horuss Zahhak, prim and proper Horuss Zahhak with his perfect grades and clever hobbies and his dark goggles pushed up to his forehead, and you feel dirtier than you’ve ever been in your life. You snarl at him in hopeless shame and you know your teeth are probably still yellow from sucking off a shitblood in an alley and he’s still just _staring_ at you.

“Ah,” he says, and takes a deep breath. He lowers his shades back down, then kneels by the tub. “You—if—if I have your situation correct, I believe you need to apply manual external stimulation to alleviate it.”

“‘m tryin’,” you manage, and your voice is crushed and wobbly. Your hand’s working between your legs as fast as you can and it’s just all sore, it burns in a way that does nothing to help the heat inside you. 

“Do you—ah, would you accept assistance?” he asks, and you nod hastily. It’s all you can do not to spread your legs and pull him into the trap with you. Instead you go still—still as you can, with your bulge still pumping desperate inside your nook and your whole body wracked with cramps and tremors—and he moves your hand from between your legs, up to your chest, and strokes your bulge gently. The material of his glove is so _soft_ , holy shit, everyone that’s touched you today has had calluses like brickwork and you moan eagerly, squirming up into his touch as he draws your bulge slowly out of your nook. 

“Relax,” he murmurs. His cheeks are bright blue and he's staring fixedly at the wall, his expression blank with concentration. “This shouldn’t hurt any more.”

You nod. You don’t—you don’t like this guy, but you trust him. You squeeze your eyes shut and fall into the sweet steady pleasure of his hand moving back and forth on your length, stroke by even stroke from the root to the tip, like he’s working you up and out of yourself bit by bit. Is this how he touches himself? You’ve been missing out, this is wonderful. You mean to tell him, to babble some bleary over-friendly nonsense but all that comes out is a tear-choked wail. His touch is such a _relief_.

“Yes, quite,” he says softly. 

Finally the softly building pleasure builds _up_ to something, a peak, and your seedflap clenches up a final time, sending a terrible white-hot pulse of sensation all the way up into your back fangs, and releases. Genetic material pours back out of you in thick, shockingly hot spurts, and you howl with relief as the pressure finally, finally starts to ease away. It takes ages, and Horuss strokes your bulge steadily through each shiver and spasm of it, setting you off over and over as the terrible distended knot of your stomach slowly smooths out. It goes on until you’re exhausted, and then beyond that. 

Finally you realize Horuss isn’t so much stroking your bulge as daintily thumbing the tip back into your sore, sodden sheath, and you don’t know what to do. You’re delirious with exhaustion, everything hurts, and when you struggle to sit up your thighs are a putrescent mess of umber and ochre and rust. Enough different shades there to make it really clear you weren't just hooking up with a badly-chosen quadrant. You look like you’ve dipped yourself in a mud pit, or a sewer. 

You suppose you rather have. 

“I’m ruined,” you say, blankly. “Oh, god. I’m fuckin’ wrecked. I’m gonna get expelled. I’m gonna get fuckin’—fucking _culled_!”

Horuss is busy peeling his filthy gloves off into the nearest trash bin. “Nonsense,” he says. “Where there is no evidence of wrong-doing there can be no conviction, can there, and hence no one can say any wrong has actually been done. That is logic, and it is also law.”

“No evidence?” you demand, and gesture at the horrid mess you’ve made of yourself. “No fucking evidence!?”

He stares down at you, and the minutely pitying crease at the side of his nose makes you feel small and stupid in a way those grown-up lowbloods hadn’t even come close to managing. “Fluids wash away,” he says. “Clothes burn. Cameras break.” Those dark lenses of his look like circles cut straight out of the spaces between the stars, and his voice doesn’t sound much warmer. He says, “Cronus, this is only a mistake if you don’t learn anything from it.”

You stare at him. He sounds awfully like he knows what he’s talking about, and you want anything but to have him keep going. 

“Okay,” you say, turning away, “Sure, yeah, got you,” and you kick on the tap. 

Thankfully, he leaves you alone to wash up, cause it's not like you're a wiggler who can't take care of himself. That was kind of the whole point here, wasn't it? You watch the water spatter against your skin, making narrow tracks through the slurry, and after a few long minutes you haul yourself up to your feet so you can reach the bottle of foaming hide cleanser. 

Everything from your waist to your knees aches, and even touching yourself enough to lather up is more than you want right now. But you want their colors _off_ , want Horuss to be right that you can just rinse the evidence down the drain and pretend you haven't just proved you were a fucking degenerate that no decent troll would want to get near. So you wash up good and thorough, staying in the water until there's no more stray fluid still trickling out of your nook, until there's no trace of any warm-spectrum colors on you or in you.

You limp back into the respiteblock wrapped in a towel, feeling bone-deep dead on your feet. Your uniform's been picked up and whisked off out of sight. Horuss is packing up his mechanical doo-dads for the day. There are two bottles of that nasty athletic hydrating beverage he likes on the table next to your 'coon, which is already set too warm for you. You're too tired to decide whether it's cool or gross that he knows what you need so precisely.

He clears his throat when you crack the seal on the first bottle. "Your absence was noted at the end of the tour," he says. "Be sure to decide what happened before you see the lieutenant tomorrow. He will not be forgiving if he can poke holes in your story."

You sniff. "I know how to lie," you tell him crossly. "Don't need you givin' me lessons there."

"Of course. I apologize for my presumption." He doesn't look over at you. This bit's so normal it's weird, after the morning you've had: hive sweet hive, with its regular complement of passive-aggressive prissy blueblooded asshole. Prissy blueblooded asshole who's helping you out instead of just watching you ruin your life, so not totally normal, but close.

You drain the first bottle and your gastric sac is pretty sure that's enough, so you leave the second one where it is for now. It's late, the sun showing dangerously high and hot through the blinds. You drop your towel and climb over the side of your recuperacoon. "So, uh," you say, pausing waist-deep in the slime. "Thanks."

Horuss's back stiffens minutely, and then relaxes again. "I don't recall anything that requires your gratitude," he says blandly. That's a dismissal if you ever heard one, and frankly you've heard a lot of them. You don't bother saying good morning if he's going to be like that, and this, too, is normal, the two of you distant as you can possibly get in a cadets’ dorm. Like his hand on you never even mattered, like this whole night, like _everyone’s_ hands on you never even mattered.

And they didn’t, did they. They couldn’t possibly. 

You slide the rest of the way down into the sleeping gel and let it start to soothe some of the aches out of you. But as the throbbing pain eases it just makes the churning uneasiness inside your mind—not your heart, no, but—sting more sharply. It should have been—shouldn't Horuss have cared more? Shouldn't the bilesucking _technician_ have cared more? It was fucking huge, this thing you did today. It's messed with you, getting wrecked by all those smiling shitbloods and crying for more, knowing that about yourself and what your body can do to you. What other people can do to your body. It’s got to matter, right? Just...maybe not for anyone but you. 

Exhaustion pulls you under while you're shaping the lie to yourself, practicing the wide smile and smooth excuses you’re going to need to get through this until it all feels perfectly real. Nothing happened, you whisper into the gloaming of your recuperacoon. You got lost at the factory and went home alone. And that’s what happened, wasn’t it? Had to be. Nothing happened, not really. 

Nothing at all.


End file.
